


to bear witness

by peachyteabuck



Category: Defending Jacob (TV 2020)
Genre: Anal, Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, F/M, Fingering, Oral Sex, Stalking, allusions to housewife kink, mentions of a break in but not done by andy degradation, mentions of the death of laurie/jacob, voyeur/perv andy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28905711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: when andy’s therapist advised him to get a hobby, no one imagined he’d turn to what he did
Relationships: Andy Barber/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	to bear witness

Andy’s work-mandated therapist sighs deeply. “You need an outlet,” she says, obviously exasperated with his lack of desire to work with her.

Andy sighs even deeper. “I _have_ an outlet.”

The therapist sighs again. “Mr. Barber, your job is stopped being an outlet when it became the reason your boss has you on probation and you were mandated to see me.”

Andy doesn’t have a good enough rebuttal to that, so instead he stares out the lightly frosted window. His therapist’s office is a few stories up, likely to help protect the privacy of her patients, so Andy watches cars and people go by as he avoids facing what has increasingly obviously is his reality.

“Mr. Barber,” the woman begins after giving him a few moments of silence. “Have you ever felt happy?”

Still not making eye contact, Andy is struck by her question. _When **had** he last been happy? Was he ever?_

Maybe he had been happy when he’d first met Laurie - for years she had been an excellent distraction from the dreary early years of his law career. A doting humanities major turned housewife, she was happy to wait on him hand and foot - ecstatic to have locked down the fancy moneymaking lawyer of her dreams.

But a long time had passed since then, and one too many nights of growling in her ear about how Andy would knock her up had conjured up a son. A son that, most importantly, whisked away everything that Andy had truly loved: Laurie’s attention.

He knows better than to tell that to the woman in front of him, though; even if her doctorate diploma was from some state school west of the Mason Dixon line, he knew she’d be smart enough to mark that down in his file.

“Maybe when I met my wife,” he replies after a long while. Andy immediately grimaces, rubbing his face with one hand before correcting him. “My ex wife.”

Andy can’t tell whether the look the therapist gives him is pity, sadness, or a combination of both. In truth, he cares very little to decipher it.

“Just use whatever terminology feels more comfortable for you,” she tells him, voice now softer. “This is about your comfort level.”

He _hmms_ , but doesn’t respond with much else besides that and a stoic silence.

The therapist pushes just a bit, convinced she’d reached a breakthrough moment with her quite stubborn client. “What was it about Laurie that made you so happy?”

It is then, just as she finished her question, that Andy looks at the large analog clock that hangs above the back of her chair and notices the hand has just ticked past seven – marking the end of the session. The man collects his jacket and briefcase and wishes her a good day, leaving cleanly and near wordlessly.

Unfortunately, the drivel of NPR and horrific (but expected) Boston traffic leave him locked in silence, unable to ignore his own thoughts.

Regardless of Andy’s noncommittal approach to therapy (and anything else his work wants him to do as he slowly makes his way back into the legal field), remembering how it was when he and Laurie had first really started dating unlocked something within him. Could he find another Laurie, another perfect housewife? She only really wanted him because of his promising law career, and now he was an established assistant district attorney with a house, a retirement fund, and a desire to be discrete.

 _What else could a woman want?_ He thinks, following the all-too-familiar route home.

Luckily, Andy doesn’t have to ponder much longer.

He meets you when you’re one of the victims in a string of robberies – homes in the Boston area targeted because of their lone, female residents. The case was decently open-and-shut, but given strains in community relations when you asked if anyone wanted to meet with you, Andy’s boss volunteered him for the job.

Andy meets you where you live, at the house that was broken into while you were sleeping. Understandably, you’re still a bit nervous leaving your home, Andy’s not exactly excited by the idea of being in a police station, and it’s not too long of a drive, so it’s not that big of a deal.

Still, he has no expectations – and those are immediately blown to pieces.

The woman who opens the white-washed door is, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman Andrew Barber has ever seen in his entire life.

To call you gorgeous would be the understatement of the century, a shame upon the name of Aphrodite and all things holy. Your eyes – perfectly framed by precisely laid eyeliner; your hair pulled from your face with a light grey headband, a large sweater in the same cement tone donning your frame. Soft black leggings cover your legs, thick socks keeping your feet warm from the frigid Boston fall. You’re gripping a ceramic mug of something steaming – coffee with a sweet creamer, judging by the smell - and Andy wishes more than anything else that you’d hold him like that.

You keep the small talk to a minimum, wanting to get Andy inside much more than you wanted to face the bitter New England cold.

Andy’s fine with that, following you through the entryway into the meticulously decorated living room, where he notices one of your deer figurines above the fireplace as a suspicious black iris.

“I don’t mean to be too forward,” he says as he sits down opposite you, you on the couch with him in an armchair. “But did you have a Nanny cam installed at the time of the break in?”

Andy didn’t recall reading anything in the police report about that.

You seem a little embarrassed given the wringing of your hands and avoidance of eye contact, but eventually you respond. “Yeah, I had a system of them installed throughout the house when I moved in. They’re all connected into this, like, app thing,” you explain. “So, I can like, see them on my laptop and my phone…”

Gears slowly but surely begin to turn as you continue to talk.

“I told the officers about it but they didn’t seem interested,” you say, a little ashamed judging by your new avoidance for eye contact. “I can give you the password, if you want…”

And there, with that sentence, is where it truly began.

At first, it was curiosity that made him fish the piece of paper where you had scribbled the information out of his coat pocket. From there, it had spiraled – every second of every day he was not forced to go in for work he was watching you, taking down everything you did.

Andy knows could put this all in a spreadsheet under a burner email address, maybe in a password protected word document. That would probably be easier to hide, less likely to be read by eyes not owned by him. It’s not that Andy doesn’t value his privacy, or that he wants an unsuspecting party to come across his careful notes – it’s just above all, he cares about the _ritual_ of documenting your everyday life, of taking pen to paper and noting everything he seems fit.

It’s calming, like how his dad used to do woodworking and his mom would clean as much as the house as she could every Saturday. Filling in the boxes with what you had for dinner and when makes him feel better, calmer, maybe even _happy_ – if he so dares to describe himself as being able to embody such an emotion.

So, despite the logical, lawyer part of his brain telling him go digital, he dutifully scribbles your routine in the nine and a half by six inch genuine leatherbound notebook he bought especially for you.

The first page is a chart, the right column listing necessary health habits while the top row indicates time of day. The squares within the chart are checked off when the activity is completed. Some of the side labelings are relatively normal, like brushing your teeth (one for the morning and the night, of course) or making your bed (you own a lot of pillows and blankets and prefer them in a certain assortment, and Andy thinks it’s adorable).

Others are ones he pays special attention to, like when you take the medications your doctor prescribed you after the break in (and the ones you’d been taking long before). He may or may not have found his way into your psychiatric history and had learned of your agoraphobia and anxiety – two mental conniptions keeping you housebound.

 _No matter,_ he thought as he transferred the file holding the information to an external hard drive. _He’d keep you nice and safe with him…eventually._

Andy’s favorite part, though, is when you get off.

When he first started all of this, you barely touched yourself. When you did, it was mostly late at night when you already couldn’t sleep and were tucked into bed – your body under your heavy, weighted duvet. It was just your hands, too, which both disappointed Andy and excited him.

 _Did you not own any toys? Would Andy have the pleasure of introducing you to the wonders of dildos, vibrators, anal plugs, handcuffs, collars, leashes?_ He could imagine your face as he showed you his own extensive collection, the pieces he bought and had delivered to a P.O. box under a fake name – toys that had never been shown to his wife, hookers and hookups he’d picked up and brought back to expensive hotel rooms. Each one is unboxed, of course, boxes of all different types of batteries along with chargers labelled with which toy they correspond to.

Andy soon realized he was wrong, though, that had your own secret assemblage. It wasn’t as large or as diverse as Andy’s, sure, but it certainly was much larger than absolutely nothing. Still, some nights you tucked yourself under the covers, used just your hands to reach a suboptimal level of temporary euphoria before falling asleep.

Other nights, however, you went all out.

Tonight appears to be one of the latter, where you pull one of the lingerie sets you debate about buying for weeks, the ones you keep hidden in the back of your closet behind your old hoodies from college that you can’t bear to throw away.

He’s seen you do this a few times, each instance more thrilling than the last. But as he watches you light candles and press _play_ on a long playlist you’d curated; he senses something different. You feel _confident_ – and Andy _loves it._ He watches you carefully, as you seat yourself in the middle of the bed with several of your toys placed next to you.

Andy’s heart slams against his ribcage as he palms himself through years-old sweatpants, eyes glued to the screen as he wishes he could get his hands on you. He quickly frees himself from the fabric confines, wrapping his hand around his cock as he imagines all the things he’d do to you if he was able to touch you for real.

_He thinks running his palms over the toned muscles of your thighs, stopping to feel where your bare, supple skin stops and the silk beings._

_“Did you wear this just for me?” He’d ask, despite knowing the answer. “Did you wear this just to impress your Daddy?”_

_You nod, breath hitching as his hands continue to trail upwards. “Y-yes Daddy, I wanted to look good for you…”_

_He imagines pushing up the lower hem, revealing matching panties or – better yet – your bare, dripping cunt. He’s caught between two paths: in the first, he ghosts the pads of his fingers over your desperate clit, feeling you shiver under him and your lips struggling to shape themselves so you could speak._

_He’ll press kisses into your temples, encouraging you. “What’s that, baby girl?”_

_He waits patiently, watching you struggle to clear your throat. “P-please,” you eventually choke out. “Please…”_

_Andy’s fingers remain just barely touching you, a small laugh escaping him as you attempt to grind against them. “Please what?”_

_“Please,” you turn your head to finally meet his heated gaze. “Please, Daddy, please touch me.”_

_And, by God, does he follow your desperate plea. A single finger easily – so easily it makes Andy groan just from how **wet** you are – enters you, and near instantly you’re begging for more._

_“Is this not enough for you?” he shoves two more fingers into you. “Do I not give you enough?”_

_You’re moaning too loud, writhing too much to answer, face scrunching up as your jaw goes slack._

_“Oh, you poor thing,” he mocks. A small smile can’t help but form on his face, tone laced with faux compassion. “Does your Daddy not fulfill your needs, you little slut? Do I not give you everything you could want?”_

_“Your cunt is mine,” he growls as he inserts a fourth finger, the squelching of your pussy making your face heat up from embarrassment. “You’re mine, you understand?”_

_You’re screaming now, Andy’s free hand pressed on your lower stomach to keep you still, his body between your legs as to block them from closing._

_“There it is,” his voice and laugh now darker, more sinister. “There’s my dumb little slut. You just love it when I fuck your little pussy don’t I?”_

_You nod as your whines increased in pitch and your cunt tightens around him, signaling your approaching climax._

_“That’s right, baby, come for your Daddy,” he purrs, hand not inside you now pressing on your forehead to keep your body relatively inert._

_You squirting all over his arm would be a surprise, but not an unwelcome one – Andy’s eyes widening as he watches the sheets become drenched in your slick._

_After a moment, he slides his fingers out of you, reveling in your whimpers at the newfound feeling of emptiness. Head still pinned, he places two of his soaked fingers onto your tongue._

_“Clean ‘em up, baby girl,” he murmurs, another wave of arousal flowing through him as you grab his wrist with both hands and begin to suck slowly, diligently, obediently…_

_In the second, the moment he feels your slick against his skin his pushes you onto your back and drags you to the end of the bed before he falls to his knees, one hand holding one hip so hard he’s sure it’ll be bruised the next morning while his other hand gropes at your breasts. He tries to leave tender kisses along your already shaking inner thighs, but it doesn’t take long before he’s leaving long licks along your pussy lips._

_“You’re especially gorgeous when I look up from between your legs,” he groans out, beard also shining in the light from your wetness. “Such a beautiful woman…so beautiful as you writhe under me…”_

_Two fingers slowly enter you, crooking them **just** so. “Just relax, baby girl…this is Daddy’s pussy, remember? I’m going to take care of it, and you don’t have to think about anything except letting me work. Just be a good little girl for Daddy, I know just how to take care of you and that desperate little cunt of yours…”_

_He watches as you buck your hips, his tongue quickly finding its way back to your dripping folds. You taste like Heaven – like everything Andy’s ever wanted or needed or desired. If he could worship there, kneeling, for the rest of his life. He would spell prayers out on his tongue, build alters dedicated to you. No one would be able to touch you, of course, but he’d be damned if the world didn’t know how gorgeous you looked, felt, tasted._

_He imagines sex tapes with his face carefully omitted, kept close to his chest but brought out for nights when he’s away or working late at work and in need of relaxation. He can’t tell which he enjoys more, the thought of filming you or the thought of watching you take his cock, on your hands and knees while he grips at your ass. He wonders if you’d want him to stretch out your asshole, too, either with his fingers or a pretty jeweled plug – maybe one of his heart shaped ones. Maybe you’d be able to take his cock one day, too, your pussy neglected and dripping down your thighs as he enters you. Maybe he’d be able to unload inside of your tight little ass as well, holding you in place so he can watch it drip out of you as your body jolts from the pleasure._

_“Such a pretty little whore, aren’t you?” he’d say, adjusting the camera so he’d have a clear view of your abused holes. “Such a pretty little whore for Daddy…”_

Andy’s fantasies fade to black near instantly as the sounds of your moans – deep and throaty and the most beautiful melody he had ever heard – become too loud to ignore. As his focus shifts he notices you’re using two toys: a dildo that fails to compare in any way to Andy’s cock and a vibrator you have on the highest setting.

The man pushes away thoughts of handcuffs and ropes and blindfolds and intricate ties, determined to focus on the way your heels dig into the sheets and your hips buck and your head falls back – fantasies of you doing these things as he fucks you onto his cock pushing him over the edge.

Andy fails to suppress a deep shout as he comes in his hands, his head thrown back and mouth dry from panting.

It’s then, as he watches your body twitch with the aftershocks of your orgasm, that he knows has to have you. Not through a computer screen, no, but under him and sitting in his lap and lying on his bed and wrapped around his cock.

He _needs_ you – and he refuses to keep his adoration a secret. It’s then, that he begins to formulate his plan to make him fall in love with you.


End file.
